Unlovable
by Jayda Morgana
Summary: Sherlock's got a boyfriend. That's right, a B-O-Y-F-R-I-E-N-D. And John's confused, angry, but most of all, jealous. Very, very jealous. Johnlock, rated M for smut, language and violence.
1. Digging Up the Past

John had never considered himself a spiteful person, but right from the start he knew he disliked David Cavanaugh.

Perhaps it was because his name sounded like something out of a Victorian romance novel. Or maybe it was because he was the owner of _some_ company or other - the details in regards to that were oddly nonspecific. Or maybe it was the snobbish lilt to his voice. That ridiculously nice hair was probably part of it, too.

John knew that at the end of the day, he really did have to be honest with himself. He didn't hate David Cavanaugh because of his posh good looks or his wealth or anything like that. He hated David Cavanaugh because he was dating Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Dating? Yep. That's right. Sherlock had a _boyfriend_.

"You're messing with me, right?" John said on the morning Sherlock casually mentioned it. It wasn't that Sherlock wasn't capable of getting dates; it had more to do with the fact that Sherlock had no use for a significant other. They distracted him from his work, after all. Besides, all Sherlock's experiences with boyfriends or girlfriends had been to help him get information or solve a case. Take poor Janine, for example.

"I am doing nothing of the kind," Sherlock said, casually turning back to his newspaper. "He's coming over in less than ten minutes, actually."

John gaped. "I just-I-"

"Oh, do stop your stuttering. Why are you looking so surprised, anyway?" Sherlock was truly baffled, but not any more so than John.

"I mean, _how?_" John asked. "As of when? Where did you meet? Tell me everything." He knew his words sounded like a schoolgirl's, but he didn't care.

"My tailor introduced us," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Three nights ago. I stopped in the next day, and he was there again. He gave me his number just yesterday afternoon. It would appear we are now 'dating'."

"I just ... can't believe it. You're sure it's not for a case?"

"I'm positive."

John stared at Sherlock in wonder, looking for some loophole. "And you're smitten with this bloke, yeah?"

"_David_, and no, I wouldn't put it that far, but ..." Sherlock frowned. "I haven't dated in a long time, John. It distracts me from my work, as you know. I'm sure you'll believe me when I say I find David to be remarkable - otherwise I wouldn't even consider seeing him."

"What's he like?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "Bit like yourself, I'm guessing? Clever but daft?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's ... a bit like me, and a bit not."

"Well, that doesn't tell me anything."

"You'll see," Sherlock said. "In ... about three seconds."

_One, two, three._

The bell rang.

* * *

As David made his way up the stairs, John felt himself stiffen. What was he supposed to expect, anyway, from the boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes? God, that sounded weird. This. _This_ was weird. Anything and everything about it was too strange to comprehend.

The seconds between the ringing of the bell and David making his appearance seemed all too short and yet far too long all at once. Before he knew it, David was standing in the threshold, and a giant lump had risen in John's throat.

This man was beautiful. God, it was ridiculous. He was impossibly good-looking, in almost an American-sort of way, with his tanned skin, wavy hair and shiny teeth. His perfectly-tailored suit did almost nothing to conceal his strong physique. John was conscious of how small he felt, with his short stature and cuddly jumper.

Jesus. Of course Sherlock would choose to date an Adonis. Beautiful people had beautiful significant others, after all; that's the way the world worked. John found himself too envious to be disappointed in how, well, _cliched_ David looked.

"Sherlock, love," David said, his voice a sort of posh purr, "It's lovely to see you again."

"And you as well," Sherlock said, standing. David stepped over to Sherlock and planted a chaste kiss on his hairline. John, still in shock, stared twitchily up at the newcomer. He had a solid three inches on Sherlock and was at least twice his breadth. Sherlock, usually the alpha male in the room, looked like some sort of delicate china doll while standing next to him.

"I brought you something," David said, procuring a gift box from nowhere. John visibly scowled as Sherlock unwrapped a new silk shirt, in a light blue color that would undoubtedly go well with his eyes. As Sherlock uttered words of thanks, John felt himself bristle even further. This whole scenario was so incredibly puke-worthy.

"Oh, and who's this?" David asked, turning to the doctor. John quickly dropped his scowl.

"This is my friend, John Watson," Sherlock said, setting the shirt aside. "John, this is David Cavanaugh."

"Right," John said, turning back to his breakfast.

David stared at John for a long moment, then turned back to Sherlock. "So, how's the Mayfair case coming along, then?" he asked.

Sherlock's face lit up. "I spoke with the widow Slaney, and she's given me loads of information. I've got it on my laptop upstairs, want to have a look?"

"Upstairs, you say? Definitely," David said, arching a brow. The innuendo wasn't even lost on Sherlock, and it certainly wasn't on John. The doctor pushed his eggs around on his plate glumly.

"Good," Sherlock said. David placed a huge arm around Sherlock's shoulders and they ambled off together.

Meanwhile, John was left to contemplate what the hell he'd just witnessed.

* * *

John hated how he felt, hated the sick twist in his gut when he heard laughter coming from upstairs. He tossed his plate into the sink angrily and plopped down into his chair, brows furrowed with anger.

This wasn't how things were supposed to work. Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to date. John knew, deep down, that he ought to be happy to see Sherlock happy (Jesus, had he seen Sherlock smile that much, like, _ever?_), but he just couldn't bring himself to feel that way. He knew he was being selfish.

Selfish, passive-aggressive, and utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

There! He'd admitted it, if only in his thoughts, to himself. He was selfish enough that he was happy seeing Sherlock without a significant other, if not with him. He was especially selfish in the sense that he especially didn't want to see Sherlock with that rugby-player of a man.

_David Cavanaugh._ Christ! He sounded like he owned some fancy estate in the country or something. He came from money, at any rate. Sherlock had mentioned that he was the owner of some company - John had forgotten the name almost instantly - but that much of his wealth had been inherited. God, it made John sick. Sherlock would never in his right mind go for someone who sat on their arse all day and made money while doing it. He appreciated driven, determined, hardworking people, and David didn't strike John as any of those.

_What does Sherlock see in him?_ John wondered, wracking his brains. Then it occurred to him: the only remotely fascinating thing about David was his good looks. Was Sherlock possibly using him for sex? But no, Sherlock wasn't interested in sex ... was he? John really had no idea. As much as he wanted Sherlock to be not-in-love-but-just-using David, he especially didn't want him going to bed with that man ...

John stood up and began to pace the room angrily. He hated what his jealousy did to him. God, how could Sherlock not see how he made John feel? He had a feeling David could sense his jealousy, so why was Sherlock, the sudden love-monkey, behaving so obtusely? Then again, did John want Sherlock to know of his feelings? Yes, yes he did, if it would go so far as to change anything-

"John?"

John spun around. Sherlock stood in the door, his hair a bit more ruffled than ... before. John cringed.

"Sherlock?"

"David's just gone," Sherlock said.

"That was ... quick."

"Yes, he had to get back to the firm. So, what did you think?"

"Sorry?"

"About David."

"He seemed friendly."

Sherlock nodded, appearing not to catch John's obvious lie. "He's a bit frivolous, but then again, I think he thinks I am, too," he said. "That's why he's always bringing gifts."

_You _are_ frivolous,_ John wanted to say. _A frivolous, ornamental, beautiful bastard, and I'm madly in love with you._

"John, could I tell you something?" Sherlock asked, crossing the room and sitting down in his chair. He leaned forward, looking less sure of himself than usual.

"Of course."

"I-well ... I'm not the type of person to pick up a boyfriend, as I mentioned earlier."

"Yes, you did."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Most of that has to do with keeping my mind clear, remaining a logical being. I have, however, been known to make exceptions."

"And you have with David?"

"Yes. I can't explain it. He's not even my type, but-"

"You have a 'type'?"

"That's beside the point. What I'm trying to say, is ... well, back at University, I made a lot of mistakes. Got involved in drugs, that sort of thing."

John didn't see where this was going. Sherlock, as if sensing John's confusion, continued.

"I got involved with a bad crowd, you see. Oh, I thought they were the greatest thing at the time, but in reality they were everything but. I dated a man - I've deleted his name, but it's hardly important - who used to, well ... used to beat me."

John felt his entire world implode. This cool, calm, collected man before him had _not_ just uttered those words. There was absolutely no way he was hearing this. No way in hell that Sherlock Holmes could possibly ... had possibly ...

"I'll kill him," John growled, hands clenched into fists. "Who is the bastard, Sherlock? I don't care if we're fifteen years late, I'll kill the sick-"

"John, I just told you, I deleted the details," Sherlock said placatingly. "It's not important. I've learned my lesson."

"_Learned your lesson?_" John cried. "What lesson was there for _you_ to learn? That bloke, whoever he is, he's the one who did this!"

"I've learned to trust few," Sherlock amended, "Especially in regards to whom I hold close. I trust you, John. And I trust David. That, above all, is why we're together."

"You're with him because he's fancies you and won't beat you!?" John was flabbergasted.

"For God's sake, John, that's not what I meant!" Sherlock snapped. "I meant to say that, besides the obvious reasons for my attraction to him, I know he would never do such a thing. I know the same mistakes won't be made, the ones that were made back at University. I've found someone who feels attraction for me, and whom I can tolerate. This won't be like Uni. I haven't dated since, mostly because I've been-"

"Scared," John said.

"... Hesitant," Sherlock corrected. "David is an admirable man. I know you think he's a spoiled git, but he's really much more than that. And he'd never hurt me if he could help it. I'm very lucky to have met him."

"Why are you telling me this?" John suddenly wondered aloud. Sherlock Holmes wasn't the type of person to divulge such private information.

"Like I said, I trust you. And I was wondering ... you have experience in this field. I wanted to know if you had any advice for me so that ... so that things don't go as disastrously as they did at Uni."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, there's no 'advice' to keep someone from hurting you!" John said, angry again. "You do realize that beating someone is never okay, right? There's no excuse. None. You didn't do anything that warranted that back at Uni, so I really can't give you any advice. If David's as good a man as you say he is, you won't need any tips, period." John stood up and made to leave the room.

"John?"

John turned around. "Yes?"

"Thank you for allowing me to open up to you. I see it hurts you to hear about what happened to me and, well ... I appreciate it. Defending my honor, and all that." Sherlock grinned impishly.

"You berk," John grumbled, leaving the room. His gut twisted on his way out, a conglomeration of anger, sadness, envy and bafflement, all at once.


	2. A Terrible Discovery

Sherlock's first thought upon waking the next day was along the lines of: _if I had to pick someone to make John jealous, I certainly chose well._

It wasn't just because John was so easily annoyed by David's presence. As strong as Sherlock's feelings were for John, he had to admit that he was rather flattered by David's attention. Who wouldn't be, after all? The man was rich, charming, and aesthetically pleasing to boot. Even Sherlock Holmes was not immune. Besides, Sherlock had to keep his options open. If John were (for some reason) deciding his feelings for Sherlock weren't worth it, it was always nice to have someone to fall back on. Not that Sherlock needed David, exactly. Well, perhaps he sort of did.

Sherlock's original mission had been to find someone that John would envy, and he'd done well in that respect. These sort-of feelings for David had been entirely unexpected.

_Maybe I'll do something right, for once,_ he thought._ I messed things up with Janine, among others. Maybe I'll do right by David._

_Maybe things will be better this time, better than they were back at Uni._

* * *

As Sherlock threw himself into his act with David, he tried to sort out his confused feelings. Yes, he fancied David - enough so that he cared what David thought of him. Enough to make him a welcome distraction from The Work. He couldn't hold a candle to John Watson, but until John grew a pair and confessed his feelings, David Cavanaugh would do just fine.

Sherlock invited him over - partly to rattle John up a bit, partly because he actually enjoyed David's company (_not as much as John's, though,_ he kept telling himself).

Sherlock pretended to be busy at his microscope when David caressed him from behind.

"You look great, Sherlock, as ever."

"I'm busy, David," Sherlock said with feigned irritation. He had to keep up some sort of an act for John's sake, after all, and being too excited to see David would seem out of character.

"Oh, listen to you, pouting up a storm." David massaged the back of Sherlock's neck gently, the rings on his fingers cool against Sherlock's skin. The detective could practically hear John's disgust from across the room. That made him smile with satisfaction. _I'm doing remarkably well._

"How is it possible that I already feel so strongly for you, love?" David said, wonderstruck. "It's only been a few bloody days!"

Sherlock refrained from a witty retort, standing and leading David to the sofa so that John had a better view. Assuming John was watching, that is. He probably was, anyway, out of the corner of his eye.

Before Sherlock could do much of anything, David was kissing him, his lips hard against Sherlock's own. For all his charisma David was not the best kisser, but it hardly mattered. They were stretched out on the sofa now, full-out snogging. Sherlock threw in an uncharacteristic panting breath for full effect.

"Right, I'm gonna go upstairs, now," John said, making a big show of leaving the room. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his own eye, a small smirk on his face.

"What's his problem?" David asked, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"Not sure."

"Weird. If you and all your deductive powers can't figure it out, nobody can." David harrumphed. "There's no logic to that man, I swear."

Sherlock felt himself stiffen at the jab, as though he himself had been insulted. He felt weak for not defending John, but he also felt as though he wanted to prove something to David. It was all so confused.

"Anyway, enough about _him_," David said, a scowl marring his handsome features. "Back to the snogging, shall we?"

Sherlock actually laughed. "Oh, David. Ever the romantic."

* * *

That night, Sherlock had The Dream again. He hadn't had it in years, and he certainly didn't understand why he was having it now. In the dream his previous boyfriend (whatever his name was) was upset because Sherlock wasn't giving him sex.

"Waiting till you've found the right one, then?" he'd snapped, shoving Sherlock angrily. "As in, not me?"

"I'm not interested in sex, I told you." This wasn't true. Sherlock was interested, just not with this man. The man he was dating. It was illogical, but he didn't care. This man wasn't _the one_.

His boyfriend had been furious. He was the type who was used to getting what he wanted, and Sherlock wasn't complying. He took Sherlock by the shoulders and, before Sherlock could do anything, shoved him backwards. Sherlock hit his head on the writing-desk behind him and saw stars.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Sherlock," his boyfriend gasped, swooping in to the rescue. Sherlock, dazed, sat on the ground, oddly indifferent. If this was how dating was going to go, then so be it. He already knew he was an unlovable waste. He might as well deal with being hurt now and again if it meant knowing his boyfriend cared for him.

That night had been a sort of impetus for what was to come. Sherlock would be shoved, scratched, kicked, and punched to his boyfriend's - dare he say it? - delight. And Sherlock, knowing that this was the extent to which anybody could ever love him, stayed.

He stayed and stayed until he didn't. There was that one night he nearly OD'd and had to be taken to hospital. Mycroft had gotten him out of the worst of it, but when he saw Sherlock's fading bruises, he told him that he was never allowed to see his boyfriend again. Sherlock took the news rather well - at last, he was free. He was beyond caring that his brother had been stronger than him - had called off the relationship when he couldn't. He knew now that he was weak and unlovable and a waste, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

That was The Dream he'd had so often after being hospitalized.

That was The Dream he was having now.

* * *

Sherlock woke in a cold sweat ... on the sofa? No. No, no, no. That meant that John could-

"Sherlock?" John was crouched by the detective's side. "You alright? You were tossing and turning, and-"

"I'm fine," Sherlock growled. "Just a stupid dream."

"Must've been pretty bad, huh?"

"It was a figment of my unconscious mind; I could hardly care less." Sherlock stood up and swooshed irritably out of the room. The fact that John had been there to comfort him was not lost on him as he went off to bed. For not the first time, he considered just how far he wanted to take his act with David.

Or, 'not-act'. Whatever it was.

* * *

David called on Sherlock the next day (that was how John pictured it, anyway, David calling on his lady love like something out of a romance novel), and the day after, and the day after that, too. In fact, he was around far too often for the doctor's liking. Hell, having David around for five minutes was enough to drive him mad.

John hated to admit it, but David was, in fact, unusually sharp. Sure, he talked endlessly about his summer cottage and the expensive parties he'd attended, but he'd also graduated from Oxford, and he hadn't just bought his way in, either. He talked to Sherlock about chemistry, his experiments, the science of deduction, and so on.

_I ask him about those things, too,_ John thought furiously. _Why is the fact that David's asking him about it so much different?_

_Because I'm not David,_ another part of his mind told him. _I'm just a practitioner in a fuzzy jumper. I'm nothing to Sherlock Holmes._

"I'll be right back," Sherlock said suddenly, pecking David on the cheek and making to leave the room. John was aware that for the first time, he was alone in a room with David. He felt oddly threatened.

"John," David said, standing and moving over to the breakfast table, where John sat. He studied the doctor for a long moment, tilting his head to the side with a thin smile.

"Can I help you?" John asked, feeling as though his personal space had been invaded.

"Ooh, someone's a bit hostile," David said with a sneer. "Anyway, John, I just want to make something clear to you. I'm dating Sherlock, not you, so you can just stop with your pining expression and all that, yeah?"

"I don't think it's really any of your business how I look at Sherlock," John said, feeling bold. _I'm John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fucking Fusiliers! How dare you tell me how to act in my own home!_

"Point made," David said with a lackadaisical shrug. "I just thought I'd warn you, John - he'll never look at you that way. Not you. He hardly does it for anybody. He especially wouldn't return _your_ sentiments." He laughed. "I mean, really? A small bloke like you? You're unimpressive in every sense of the word."

John bristled. Part of him wanted to retaliate, another part couldn't believe this was really fucking happening. David was _not_ accosting him in his own home.

"I'll get over it," John said, returning the shrug. He didn't want David to see how much the words bothered him.

"Right." David chuckled, stepping away just as Sherlock re-entered the room. "Oh, love, I completely forgot!" he said, pulling a small gift box out of his pocket.

_Here we go again,_ John thought, coughing to disguise his snort of disbelief.

Sherlock opened it to find an expensive new watch. "I was just thinking how I had to replace the old one," he said, smiling. Even John could tell the smile was forced. David's gifts were getting a bit much, after all.

"I knew you'd like it," David said, kissing Sherlock fondly. "We're off to Bart's, then, yeah?"

"Of course." Sherlock and David left the room together. For the umpteenth time, John felt a pain in his heart, but also a feeling of aggression, all directed at that posh prince Sherlock (for some godforsaken reason) chose to fancy.

* * *

Sherlock was in the midst of demonstrating an experiment at Bart's when David offered to help.

"Sure ... but you'll need to make sure your hands are clean. And you can't wear your rings, either - they'll get in the way."

David proceeded to take off his rings and wash his hands in the nearby sink. It was then that Sherlock caught a glimpse of something peculiar - something about the rings ... they were dirty, which seemed odd. It seemed careless, for David.

Sherlock realized with a start that David's rings weren't just dirty - not in the typical sense, anyway. They were caked with something ...

Oh, God. Sherlock felt as though he were about to be sick. His world literally came crashing down on him. Surely David had an explanation? But no, this could never happen unless-

"I have to go," Sherlock said, snatching up his coat and making to leave the room.

"Sherlock, you alright?" David called, making to follow.

Sherlock didn't slow down. He needed to get away from David, immediately.

* * *

When he returned to Baker Street, Sherlock went straight to his room, slamming and locking the door. Why hadn't he seen this earlier? Why had he allowed himself to feel this sort-of attachment to David, before deducing him properly?

_It's only been a week,_ Sherlock thought forlornly. _Why couldn't I have had more time to enjoy myself?_

_Because things might've escalated beyond repair,_ another part of his mind told him, the logical part.

His phone buzzed. It had been doing that a lot since his dramatic exit from Bart's, but he couldn't bear to look. He knew who it'd be.

Finally, though, he decided to check. Several texts from David, but one from ... John?

_You OK?_ John had texted. _Heard the door slam. Hope you're not upset about anything._

Sherlock's heart swelled. Thank God - thank God! - for John. John was loyal, John was caring, John was compassionate. In many ways he was an open book, but in this sense, it was much better than how David was. David wasn't honest. David was a sick, twisted creature.

Sherlock knew this because David's rings had been caked not with dirt, but with dried blood.


	3. Retaliation

David soon realized what Sherlock had seen, what he was thinking. He couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. Of course Sherlock Holmes, deductive genius, would notice the dried blood on his rings! God, he'd been daft. For someone who was so good at finagling his way out of things, omitting the truth, etc; he really had fucked up, big-time.

David whipped out his phone and texted Sherlock for about the twentieth time. When he didn't get a response, David tapped Sherlock's number and listened to the electronic ring.

"I need an explanation," were Sherlock's first words.

"Oh, God, love, I just realized what you must be thinking," David said smoothly. He was a pro at changing details around - and hell, he _really_ needed to do some explaining, because things looked bad on his end. And they'd continue to look bad unless David kept up a good story and an air of confidence.

"Mm, yes. An explanation, then, David?"

"I was mugged about a week ago," David said, smooth as ever. Not even Sherlock Holmes would notice his lie. "I don't know what the man was thinking, tackling a big bloke like me. He was going for my wallet, so I, erm, punched him - a bit hard, I suppose. Self-defense, that sort of thing. Shame it had to happen; I absolutely hate being violent. I just haven't cleaned my rings, you know?"

"Hmm." Sherlock's skepticism was obvious. "I don't think you'd lie to me, David, so ..."

"How about I make it up to you, for the scare?" David suggested. "My company's having some sort of boring meeting tonight, but that can easily be skipped. Why don't I take you to dinner?"

"Sure," Sherlock said. By all means it appeared that David had already been forgiven.

"Excellent. I'll come by your flat at, what, seven? You can pick the place."

"Fine."

David hung up, breathing a sigh of relief. Sherlock Holmes had, amazingly, been fooled.

* * *

"He's lying to me," Sherlock said, as soon as he hung up. He turned to John, to whom he'd just been explaining the issue with the blood three minutes prior. "I don't know why, but he's lying. I suppose he has his own reasons."

"You're just going to forgive him?" John asked, bewildered. "You don't know what you're up against, Sherlock. He's an evasive enough bloke as it is ..."

"I jumped to conclusions," Sherlock insisted. "I worried, as you understand, John. It made me think of University."

"And now you're just going to go crawling back to him, like a dog," John said boldly.

"Nothing of the kind. This is giving him a second chance."

"This is not a second chance! This is all very vague, Sherlock, and you're falling for his lies."

"I am _not_," Sherlock insisted, sounding like a petulant child. "I am taking what he says with a grain of salt. He's a good boyfriend, John, despite a minor blip here and there. He tries, and I'm willing to give him a chance, see where things go."

"But-"

"I don't see why you're so protective of me, anyway," Sherlock snapped. "Let me deal with it myself. I am a fully-functioning adult, after all."

John scowled as he left the room, leaving Sherlock to get ready for his date.

* * *

John found himself feeling a conglomeration of emotions. On one hand, he absolutely loathed David, and now that Sherlock had told him about some bloody rings? Whatever they meant, John found the man completely despicable. On the other hand, he also hated being played by those two like some stringed instrument. If anyone was going to sit around and wallow in self-pity, it was not John Watson.

In short, he needed to find himself a girlfriend.

While Sherlock was off on his date (_dinner?_ John couldn't believe Sherlock had allowed for it), John looked into his online dating profile. A new message from a girl, Bethany, who basically admitted she was just interested in something casual. As John replied to her message, he felt bad for playing the girl, but only for a moment. It would be worse if she were interested in something serious.

Within the hour, John's new girlfriend(?) had appeared at 221B. She stood in the threshold, glancing about the sitting-room, intrigued. John smiled with satisfaction; she had to be in her late twenties at most - and besides that, she was tanned, blonde, and curvaceous. About as aesthetically irritating as David. It was almost too perfect.

"Can I be completely honest with you?" Bethany said, popping a piece of gum in her mouth.

"Uh, sure?" John didn't know what to expect.

"Like I said in the message, I'm not really going for anything serious? Well, I _really_ meant that. I'm actually just looking for someone to snog until my old boyfriend comes back around. I know, I know, I shouldn't be telling you that, but-"

"No, it's no problem," John said, grinning. "As long as we're being honest, then, I'm just looking for a casual fling until my flatmate starts noticing me."

"And you think this'll get his attention?" Bethany asked, flashing a conspiratorial grin.

"Well, I don't even know if he feels anything for me, but right now he's completely giving me the cold shoulder, so, erm ... we'll see."

Bethany laughed. "Well then, John Watson, I'm game as long as you are. A mutual agreement?"

"Yes, definitely."

John and Bethany proceeded to snog on the sofa until (and well after) Sherlock and David returned.

* * *

"So ... new girlfriend, then?"

"Yep."

Sherlock was visibly annoyed (annoyed? YES! But jealous? John wasn't sure).

"I don't like her."

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock. She's not _your_ girlfriend."

"She's just using you."

John felt unbearably frustrated, so he aimed for a low blow. "You're not exactly the person I go to for dating advice, Sherlock." He couldn't just drop it there, though. "Any news on David? Not a serial killer, then, is he?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I find the idea highly doubtful."

"I'm just looking out for you, that's all."

"I'm giving him a _chance_, John. It's not often that someone comes along that I have strong feelings for ... someone who can tolerate me for more than five minutes."

_Sounds a bit like me, doesn't it? _John thought sadly._ God, I love you, you bastard._

John cleared his throat. "I'm just saying, you could do so much better."

"As could you."

John decided to drop the matter completely. There was no getting through Sherlock's thick skull, after all.

* * *

Sherlock knew, deep down, that he could do better. He could have John, the only one he truly wanted. But if neither party was willing to admit their feelings for each other, Sherlock figured David would have to do. He was doing very well, despite a bit of dishonesty here and there.

Still, Sherlock knew his feelings lied almost completely with his flatmate. He went to bed that night ignoring David's texts. He had The Dream again, but this time, John Watson came to the rescue before his old boyfriend could do much of anything. Sherlock woke the next morning, his pillow damp, though he didn't entirely know why.

"_John_," he murmured, his voice a breathy moan.

Oh, God. He was in this more deeply than ever.

* * *

A month passed. Sherlock kept busy with his cases, inviting David over now and again for help on a case (but more often than not, a snog-session). John was growing used to David's presence at 221B; he was like a bad television program that was always on - there in the background, perpetually loud and irritating.

"What is it that you do, exactly?" John asked, as David talked vaguely about his work at 'the firm'. "I'm having a hard time understanding."

"Sorry, haven't I just been explaining all that?" David said rudely. Even Sherlock bristled; David had never been so blatantly rude to John in front of his boyfriend.

"In obscure terms, yes."

"I suppose you wouldn't understand it, would you?" David said huffily. "Just being a general practitioner and all."

A weighty silence filled the room. Sherlock and John stared at David in dumbfounded disbelief.

"David, you shouldn't talk to John that way," Sherlock said, sounding surprisingly anxious.

John held in a breath. He was not going to rant about having been a goddamn army doctor. No. That was absolutely _not_ going to happen.

"Do you have any idea how much work my field requires?" John snapped, losing it completely. His stance was aggressive, his hands clenched into fists.

"Oh, shut up," David snapped.

"David!" Sherlock snapped back. "You're being a complete arse."

David turned on Sherlock furiously. "Defending his honor, then, yeah? Brilliant. Just brilliant."

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock and John stared after him in shocked silence.

"He knows nothing about hard work, medical school, or any of it," Sherlock said. "Don't take it too personally, John."

"Don't take it 'too personally'? Are you joking? I-"

"Yes, I know, you're Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." Sherlock sounded exhausted. "I'll have a talk with him later. He crossed the line, just now."

"I'll say."

"He's not that bad, John. Just insensitive sometimes. So, really, the perfect fit for me."

_No, don't say that, _John wanted to say._ You're _nothing_ like him._

"I'll text him; try to make him see sense." Sherlock made to leave the room, but before doing so, he turned back, meeting John's eyes. "You didn't deserve that, you really didn't."

With that he left the room. John watched him go, feeling empty.

* * *

If John had been under the impression that things couldn't get much worse, he was in for a mighty surprise that night. Because of all things to happen, David appeared on the doorstep, completely pissed.

"David," Sherlock said, letting him in and closing the door behind him. "You look terrible."

"Wow, thanks," David said, scowling bitterly. "After all the effort I go to, trying to look nice for you, and you piss all over me."

"That's not true," Sherlock said, feeling passive and weak. He had an odd sense of foreboding - he'd never seen David drunk before, and he didn't like the idea of it.

"_Yes, it fucking is!_" David bellowed. His voice evidently carried far; John appeared at the top of the staircase.

"Hey, you should probably get home," John said, making his way down the steps. "You're not looking too good. Sherlock, should we-"

"Sherlock this, Sherlock that," David spat. "You're obsessed with him, aren't you? Just admit it! Always pining over him like a schoolgirl-"

"David, you need to shut up, now," Sherlock insisted, as John went completely red in the face.

"No, you know who needs to shut up, for once? _You_ do, Sherlock Holmes. You do."

"David, you-"

_BANG!_

Before John could realize what had happened, he saw Sherlock slumped over on the floor, a deep gash across his face, his nose bleeding. It took John a moment to process: David had just punched Sherlock, hard, with his rings on and everything.

God, why hadn't he realized earlier? Those bloody rings - probably from a previous relationship, and a disagreeable one at that - but no. No no no no _NO_. This couldn't be happening. Not to Sherlock, John's only love. Especially not to someone who had a history with abusive boyfriends.

"YOU. FUCKING. WANKER." John stormed down the stairs, a livid expression on his face. "I'll kill you. Christ, I'll _kill_ you-"

Before David could defend himself, John had landed a blow across David's own face - and again, and again, and again. The final blow yielded a sickening crunch - David's nose had been broken.

"Get the FUCK out of this flat," John spat. "You're lucky I'm not calling the police, you complete shit."

David threw his hands up in the air and backed out of the flat, looking furious and, above all things, confused (as though _he_ were the one who had been unfairly treated, of all the nerve!). John didn't wait to see if he made it into a cab. He slammed and locked the door, completely red in the face.

_Sherlock_. Oh, God, Sherlock.

He turned. Sherlock wasn't there.


	4. More Than Enough

_**A/N: Possible triggers to those of you who have been through abusive relationships.**_

* * *

Every inch of John's being wanted to fly into panic mode. Where the hell was Sherlock? Jesus ...

_Okay. Rational thinking. He's probably gone upstairs. I need to make sure he's alright._

But of course he wasn't alright; that much was obvious. He'd just been punched, hard, right in the face by his boyfriend. The fact that David was pissed wasn't an excuse; John was actually amazed at his level of restraint. He'd been wanting to wipe that twisted expression off David's face ever since they'd met. He'd succeeded in doing this; for now, that would have to be enough.

As John ran up the steps, images of what he imagined Sherlock's University days to be like flitted through his mind. The only two boyfriends he'd ever had had hurt him physically. John knew that Sherlock was more than capable of taking out men twice his weight, so there had to be a reason he hadn't retaliated in both scenarios ... right? Whatever the reason, John knew that he had to make sure Sherlock was okay. That was the most important thing.

He found the door to Sherlock's room open, the detective himself sprawled facedown on the bed, in pyjama bottoms and an old sleep shirt. He looked the picture of utter defeat.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. He didn't know what else to say. "Can I help you in any way?"

"Leave me alone, John," Sherlock said bitterly.

"At least let me take a look at your face."

Sherlock rolled over and sat up on the bed, his curls tousled, a great gash across his face. Just beside his nose a large bruise was starting to form. John noticed, to his horror, that Sherlock's bare arms were covered in bruises, too - bruises he hadn't been aware of, when Sherlock was dressed for the day. The urge to commit homicide overcame John once again.

"It's not broken," Sherlock said with a sigh. "I know a few techniques, for disguises and all that. If I just apply a load of foundation-"

"Sherlock, Jesus," John said. "That's not important right now. Are you okay? Christ, of course you're not okay, what am I saying? Look at your arms! Jesus buggering fuck." He cleared his throat. "He's been rough with you before, then."

"Never to this degree," Sherlock said. "I figured it wasn't important. Things like this happen to people like me, after all."

Those words turned John stone cold. "Wait,_ what?_ Sherlock?"

"Insufferable people like me," Sherlock said. "We're bound to get banged up, now and again. David cared about me, but he could only deal with me in small doses - his temper was understandable-"

"No, Sherlock, David did not fucking care about you," John said adamantly. "What are you even saying?"

"I am unlovable," Sherlock said, as though the concept were simple. Now was the time for confession. "I know you'd never hurt me, John."

"Of course not. But ... what does that have to do with ..."

"I thought I was enjoying my relationship with David," Sherlock said, trying to clear his thoughts, "And I was, to an extent. But I was mostly using him ... to make you, erm, jealous."

This surprised John, but he still didn't know what Sherlock was getting at. "I am unlovable, and undeserving of your love, John. There, I've said it. I was waiting for you to say something first, but I suppose I'd better be honest. But then I realized that I would never deserve you, John Watson, so being with David was the next-best option." Sherlock felt uncharacteristic tears spring to his eyes. "But I was wrong. I should have seen the warning signs from the start - the way David handled me, talked to you ... I've made a mistake, John. A huge mistake."

"Oh, Sherlock," John said, utterly defeated. What Sherlock was saying made complete sense and at the same time, didn't make any sense at all. Sherlock loved him? Sherlock didn't think himself worthy of John? He thought _he_ was the one who'd fucked up? _No_. No, no, no.

"David - and my previous boyfriend - weren't just administrators of physical abuse. They said all sorts of things, and I believed them - still do a bit, in fact. Told me I'd never deserve someone to love me, not really. Said I needed to be 'put in my place' every once in awhile-"

"That's not fucking true," John said furiously. "That's not how relationships work, Sherlock, and someone as brilliant as you should never - well, I mean, _no one_ should ever have to go through that sort of thing."

"I thought perhaps I deserved it, though, since I'm an insufferable git ..."

"Oh, Sherlock," John moaned, sitting down on the bed. "When I say those things, I'm just poking fun at you. You're not an insufferable git, not really. You're brilliant and ... and beautiful, and completely, utterly lovable. I'm not just saying that. You had the very unfortunate luck of being paired with two truly despicable beings, and I'm so fucking sorry you had to go through that. Jesus, you can't know how sorry I am. And I know this is probably not the best time to be saying this, but I love you. I love you so much. And right now I could care less about having a relationship with you; that's not the important thing. Right now I just want to make sure you're going to be okay, and make sure you know how loved you are. By Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly ... and me, more than anything."

Sherlock sat in stunned silence. He had confessed his love for John, and John had done the same for him. It was a lot to take in.

"I trust you, John," he said. "I know you wouldn't do - do _this_." He motioned to his cut face.

"God, no. Never. Not if my life depended on it. You must never forget that."

Sherlock nodded once. "I think I'll go to bed now, if you don't mind."

"I still need to look at your face, Sherlock."

"I'll look at it myself. For now, I just want to be left alone."

"Are you sure-"

"John." Sherlock looked worn - understandably, of course. "I appreciate what you said just now. Of course I feel the same; how could I not? But you must understand ... I can't do anything about our feelings, not now. Not so soon after this. And I really, really need time alone to clear my thoughts."

John nodded. "Of course, Sherlock. I understand."

"And now, John, some privacy."

"Right. Okay. Just let me know if you need anything."

John left the room, feeling absolutely horrible for leaving Sherlock alone.

* * *

Sherlock slept fitfully, dreaming of his conversation with David, just before he'd gone out and gotten pissed.

"I don't know how to word this, Sherlock," David had said, that very afternoon in Sherlock's room. "So I'll be blunt. I'm mad about you. And I want to show you that in the best way I know how."

"And that would mean ...?"

"Christ, Sherlock, don't be daft," David said, shaking his head and smiling. "I can't even say it without sounding ridiculous, so ... well, I've wanted to, erm, take you to bed. You know, have sex."

Sherlock frowned. He couldn't very well say that he was waiting for _the one_ - meaning John. If John ever came around, or vice-versa.

"I'm very fond of you, David ..." Sherlock began.

"Oh, God," David said with a sigh. "Are you seriously - okay, look, I understand. But we have been dating for awhile-"

"One month exactly."

"Right. So a long time, then."

"I wouldn't say so."

David looked frustrated. He took Sherlock roughly by the arms, looking directly into his eyes. "You can't even imagine how much it pains me, not to have taken you," he said.

Sherlock, not one who typically blushed, went completely red in the face. "Don't be disgusting."

"We all have our disgusting fantasies, though, don't we? I need you, Sherlock. I'm serious." He squeezed Sherlock's arms, hard, undoubtedly leaving more bruises. "I can't imagine life without you."

Sherlock thought vaguely of what his old boyfriend had said - it had been something to that effect, right before he'd turned aggressive. Warning signs flashed in Sherlock's head.

"You need to leave," he said, pulling away. David gripped harder, relentless.

"Oh, so that's how it's fucking going to be, then? Chaste, pristine Sherlock Holmes, a delicate little virginal flower? Why don't you just go fuck John Watson, then, like you've always wanted?"

"David, I told you to leave," Sherlock said furiously. He had been growing less fond of David by the second, and now that he'd involved John, Sherlock felt nothing but resentment.

"Fine," David spat, shoving Sherlock roughly backwards. Sherlock caught his balance easily, but his arms still pulsed with pain.

Sherlock didn't watch as David left the room. He sat down on his bed, not wanting to know what his boyfriend had in store for him.

* * *

Sherlock woke in a tangle of sheets, perspiring heavily. The room was still dark. He let out a loud, wracking sob.

"Sherlock."

John sat on the other side of the bed. He turned on the bedside lamp.

"Don't look at me," Sherlock said, turning over on his side and covering his face. He felt so ashamed of his battered body, and the crying wasn't helping matters. "I'm pathetic."

"Oh, Sherlock," John murmured, placing a hand on the small of his back. Sherlock stiffened, but gradually allowed himself to sink into the touch. "I love you so much."

_The last person who said such things beat him up, you idiot,_ John thought angrily. _Watch yourself._

Sherlock didn't seem to mind, though. "I know you do, John," he breathed. "I've always known."

They stayed like that for a long time. Somehow, for the time being, it was more than enough.


	5. A Memory, Resurfaced

"Delivery for Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

John let out a small sound of annoyance. This was the fourteenth delivery of the day, and it wasn't even noon yet. John had no choice but to accept the package, though he knew who it was from and highly disapproved. He set it on top of the already-forming mountain of stuff - right next to the huge bouquet of flowers. Fifty roses, to be exact.

_I can't even believe his nerve,_ John thought. _Treating Sherlock the way he did and then trying to win him back with presents._

As similar thoughts flitted through John's mind, Sherlock entered the room, looking impossibly adorable in blue silk pyjamas, his curls messy with sleep. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline upon observing David's gifts.

"Looks as though he's on a mission to buy out Harrod's," he said dryly, giving the packages a cursory glance.

"Apparently so," John murmured.

"To think I appreciated his gifts when we were dating," Sherlock said, a look of disgust on his face.

"Wait ... 'when' you were dating?"

"Well, obviously I'm not going out with him anymore."

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I just ... I wasn't sure. I was - still am - worried about you, Sherlock."

It was then that John noticed Sherlock's face. He'd clearly applied a great deal of foundation to his nose; to the casual observer, it would look as though he'd never been punched. On one hand, John was glad that this meant that there would be no awkward explanations, but it made him sad to think that Sherlock needed to cover up in the first place. He thought back to what he imagined Sherlock's University days to be like, pictured him sitting silently before a mirror, working to cover up his wounds. It made John want to cry.

"I love you," John said suddenly. "And I'm here for you. But I suppose you already know that."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said quietly.

"I still feel like David hasn't gotten what he deserves, though," John admitted. "Breaking his nose wasn't nearly satisfying enough."

"I have a feeling nothing will ever be satisfying enough, John - not in this case." Sherlock took a step forward and placed his hands on John's shoulders. "I love you. It's an honor to have you ... defending me, I suppose."

"And it's an honor to do the defending." John met Sherlock's green eyes, alarming in their intensity. His gaze traveled to that beautiful Cupid's bow, so lush and kissable ...

Just as he was leaning in the for the kiss, none other than David Cavanaugh appeared on the threshold.

"I should have figured," he said, sounding surprisingly morose. "That you two would get together after, well ... all this." He turned to Sherlock, who stood, completely rigid. "Sherlock, love-"

"You complete twat," John growled. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing back here? We could have you removed in three seconds, tops, and it wouldn't be pleasant."

"Please, John, Sherlock, listen to me. I messed up, okay? I fucking messed up and it's been driving me mad. I was pissed; I wasn't in control of my actions-"

"Getting pissed is not an excuse for your actions," John snarled.

"Sherlock, I've been trying to make it up to you all morning," David said, trying another appeal. "I wish you'd give me a chance. One more chance. I'm begging you." He actually clasped his hands in front of him, tears springing to his eyes.

John felt nothing but disgust. He turned to Sherlock, who surely wasn't buying this bullshit ... but no, wait. Oh, God. Sherlock wasn't moving, wasn't saying anything.

"Sherlock?" David asked.

The detective suddenly felt very small, and that wasn't something that happened often. He was aware that he was standing in his sleepwear, looking like a complete emotional wreck, in front of Abusive Boyfriend #2. Well, ex-boyfriend.

He knew how he felt, what his answer would be, but he also knew that David's reaction wouldn't be pretty. Oh, well. He'd have to risk it.

"No," Sherlock said simply.

"No?" David looked as though he'd never considered this option. "Are you fucking serious?" His mouth set in a firm line.

"I cannot believe I ever chose to trust someone like you," Sherlock said, his baritone low and rumbling. "You sicken me."

"As if your actions weren't sickening yourself. I know you were just using me to make John jealous - and yet, I want you back! It's so goddamn ridiculous. But I think part of me knows that deep down, you had feelings for me, and still do."

"Perhaps I did once," Sherlock said, "But not anymore. Never again."

David's eyes turned to slits; his expression grew cold. "Have it your way, then," he said. "I'll just go and have a laugh about all this with my mate Daniel Porter."

Sherlock completely froze. He literally felt as though he'd been petrified. That name - oh, God, that _name!_ He thought he'd deleted it years ago, back when ...

Oh, Christ. He thought he was going to be sick, right then and there.

"How do you-?" he began faintly.

David laughed, sounding a bit maniacal. "He works for me, you arse," he said with a toothy grin. "Told him who I was dating, and we had a good laugh about everything. Seems he enjoyed battering you up a bit, too."

"You disgusting cock, we could send you both to prison!" John yelled, absolutely livid. He'd deduced who Daniel Porter was - Sherlock's ex from Uni. The one who'd beat him up, too. And now he and David had been swapping secrets about their exploits like primary-school children.

"You'd need evidence for that sort of thing," David said with a shrug. "Besides, I don't think you'd dare."

"Fucking _evidence?_ Jesus, Sherlock's face is smashed in!" John spat. "We'd just have to accuse you, then-"

"Right. I'm leaving, now," David said flippantly, turning to go, leaving John fuming in the doorway.

"We'll have those complete shits arrested," John snarled, once David was gone. "I swear to it on my life."

"I don't want a big scene," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time in what seemed to be ages. He looked so delicate standing there, an island unto himself. "Can you imagine? 'Famous Detective Battered, Ex-Boyfriends to Await Trial'. It would be my undoing."

"Sherlock, you can't let those bastards walk free-"

"We'll find another way," Sherlock said, a newfound light in his eyes. "Calling the police is what they're expecting. We'll get them somehow, when they're least expecting it."

"Sherlock, what are you suggesting?"

"I haven't a clue, not yet. But I will, eventually."

Sherlock bent forward and kissed John on the mouth. His lips were soft and warm, as John had been expecting, but his newfound fury made the kiss rushed, urgent. Sherlock pulled away far too quickly.

"I'll think of something, John. Mark my words."


	6. His Just Desserts

Sherlock threw himself fully into his plot for revenge, and though it did worry John a bit, he was more than anything happy that Sherlock was no longer the timid and battered partner. He could still sense the hurt, that Sherlock was feeling, though, the hurt that fueled the fire, drove him to what he was doing.

"So ... what is it that you have in mind?" John asked, about a week after Sherlock set off with his plan. His love had been fairly secretive in regards to what he was doing, but whatever it was involved frequent trips into London and, surprisingly, to Mycroft.

"You'll see," Sherlock said, his expression stoic. "I'm going to take out the thing David Cavanaugh loves most, and take care of Daniel Porter at the same time."

"You sound very pleased with yourself."

"I _am_ very pleased with yourself."

"Kind of like a supervillain. It really shouldn't be sexy, but ..."

Sherlock laughed, pecking John on the cheek before he could react. "I would tell you everything, John, but the operation is highly secretive. _I_ trust you, Mycroft doesn't."

"_Mycroft_ doesn't? What's his involvement-"

"Oh, you'll see. He's proving incredibly valuable. He has information on, well, practically everything these days."

Sherlock exited the room with a mysterious grin. John trusted that Sherlock would tell him all soon enough. Hopefully.

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of the mirror in his room (or rather, his and John's room, now). He looked himself up and down, observed every inch of his body, stopping when he caught sight of the bruising on his face. The foundation was fading; he'd have to apply some more later.

Despite what John said, he was far too used to past abuse to see anything good in himself. He saw a cold, calculating monster. He saw someone absolutely-

"... unlovable," he declared, glaring at himself in the mirror. "As ever."

The memories of University were slowly coming back to him, despite the pains he'd taken to delete them. He saw Daniel, a man similar to David physically, confessing his undying love for Sherlock but showing him he felt just the opposite with his actions. It had begun so simply at first, so innocently - Daniel would do minor things like pinch Sherlock's bum roughly or give him a few shakes. Naturally things got worse, and Daniel began hitting, kicking, even biting.

"I don't know why I keep you around," he'd often said. "You won't even let me fuck you."

Sherlock didn't respond. He watched Daniel closely, knowing that not matter what, he would never let Daniel take him. He could deal with the physical pain, but he would never, ever lose his virginity to this monster.

Despite Sherlock's knowledge that Daniel was completely psychotic, he'd still found himself believing the terrible things his boyfriend said about him.

_Unlovable, unlovable, unlovable._

Present-day Sherlock scowled at his reflection. Daniel had been right.

* * *

"So, when are you going to let me in on your master plan, love?" John asked upon returning home from work. Sherlock was typing away at his laptop.

"I can disclose the main details right now, as a matter of fact," he said with a grin.

"I can't wait."

"First off, do you know, well, anything about David's company?"

"Hardly, for all he talked about it."

"That's because it's fake. Completely, utterly fake. Cavanaugh Industries is not the accounting firm we were led to believe, though it certainly is a nice facade. It's nothing short of a crime syndicate, guilty of everything from embezzlement of other companies to petty theft and so on. David could land himself years in prison for all that he's had a say in; I don't know how we didn't see it earlier."

"That's brilliant!" John exclaimed. "Seriously, Sherlock, how did you find this out?"

"Like I said, I used Mycroft as a crutch, though I'm loath to admit it. I remember the vague terms in which David spoke of the company, though I didn't really question it, not then. I was too focused on ..." Sherlock stopped suddenly. "Nevermind. Point being, Daniel holds a position in the company, and though it's not as high and mighty as David's is, it's high up enough that he could land himself in prison, too."

"What an odd coincidence, that both your past boyfriends should work for this company."

"It's not as odd a coincidence as you might think. Cavanaugh Industries is huge. The only real stroke of luck is that both David and Daniel hold high enough positions to get in serious trouble."

"Well, this is fucking genius," John said, letting out a big breath. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're absolutely brilliant."

"So you've mentioned," Sherlock said, grinning wryly.

"I love you, you know. Very much."

"And I love you." Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John warmly. This kiss was filled with compassion, love, and pleasure at their shared success. Neither Sherlock or John could've felt happier, in that moment.

"We're winning," John said, grinning madly. "Those bastards are going to pay."

"Now the only question is, when to spring this trap on them."

* * *

The next day, just before Sherlock planned to phone the police with the tipoff, he looked at himself in the mirror again. Somehow, he felt better. Not just because John loved him, but because he was finally starting to see a glimmer of his own worth, if only a little.

_You're not so bad, _Sherlock thought with a shrug._ A bit of a git, but likable enough. Or something like that._

* * *

The news broadcast broke that very afternoon: twenty-seven top-notch employees at Cavanaugh Industries were awaiting trial for their involvement in their corrupt organization. David and Daniel were included in the mix. When it was announced that it was thanks to Sherlock Holmes - or, as the newscaster so aptly put it - "The Hat Detective" - both men appeared visibly floored. They looked absolutely furious, and that would be to put it lightly. Sherlock and John watched the broadcast with relish.

"Huge scandal, I imagine," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Not that I'm too concerned anymore."

"You're happy they're almost certainly going to prison, though, right?" John said. "And that you weren't exposed, or shown battered on telly, and all that."

"More than happy," Sherlock said, smiling softly.

John ruffled Sherlock's curls. "I'm glad to hear that. They deserve this, you know, and not just because of some bloody embezzlement," he said, kissing Sherlock's hair.

"I love you, John," Sherlock said, for perhaps the twentieth time that day.

"I love you too, Sherlock. You are everything to me."

* * *

That very weekend, it was determined that David Cavanaugh, Daniel Porter, and several others would be going to prison. Sherlock didn't pay much attention to the details; the fact that they were being locked away good and proper was more than enough.

He looked at himself in the mirror once more, analyzed himself. He thought of all the wonderful things John had said, of how much John loved him. He thought of how he was starting to see good in himself, maybe even love himself a little bit.

"You are lovable," he said, his voice faint. He repeated these words with a new conviction. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are loved, and lovable. You always were."

At last, Sherlock knew the truth.

* * *

**_A/N: There will be one more chapter after this. Oh, and I found some amazing fanart that I feel (more or less) encompasses this story. Have a look here: _****francesksgk dot tumblr dot com/post/87896054194**


	7. Entirely Lovable

_**A/N: Smutty times ahead! ;)**_

* * *

The morning of the trial went smoothly. The heads of Cavanaugh Industries were sentenced to prison for an ungodly number of years. Sherlock, of course, made his presence known at the trial (not for being battered, but for having exposed the company). David and Daniel shot him looks of disgust and and absolute fury throughout most of the trial, and Sherlock smiled right back. Vengeance had finally been served.

"Still wish I could punch them both," John said, once Sherlock was back at Baker Street. "I never got a chance to wipe that smirk off Daniel's face."

"I think we've done well enough," Sherlock said with a smirk of his own. "This is revenge of the best sort. A punch in the face would be momentary, heal quickly. Knowing they're suffering in prison, well ..." a wicked grin spread across his face. "Listen to me, John. I've become a madman."

"A brilliant, beautiful madman," John amended, kissing Sherlock fondly.

As much as John wanted to waste his energy on his hatred of Sherlock's exes, he knew that it would be better served showing this brilliant, beautiful madman before him how much he meant to him. He placed his arms on Sherlock's waist and pulled him close.

"I want to show you how much I love you," he whispered. "How much you are loved."

Sherlock broke into a grin. "I encourage you to do so, Dr. Watson," he purred.

"Bedroom?" John suggested.

Sherlock nodded. He appeared cool and complacent, though he felt a bit startled. He'd been saving himself for someone special, and that person was definitely John ... but there was no getting around the fact that he was still a virgin and completely unsure of what to do. He was (dare he even admit it?) afraid.

"John, I should warn you," Sherlock began. "I want to do this, but, well ... I never have."

"You mean you ..."

"Yes."

"We don't have to if you're not ready."

"No, I'm ready. But I think you should lead."

"Oh. Right. Okay." John was not averse to this idea, but he wanted to make sure things went smoothly. What if Sherlock hated sex with him? It was his very first time, after all. He didn't want there to be loads of buildup and have it go sour. And then, of course, what if John wasn't gentle enough? Assuming Sherlock wanted to take things gently, of course. He'd been through a lot of rough treatment lately, and John didn't want to push him into anything.

They made their way to the bedroom. Sherlock stood before him, smiling uncomfortably.

"Just relax, Sherlock," John advised. "And if you're not comfortable with anything - I'm absolutely serious - then tell me, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, peeling away his clothing. His bruises had faded by now; he looked as strong and lanky as ever, a six-foot tall porcelain figure. John pulled aside his clothing as well; he was aware that he was physically Sherlock's opposite - solid, tanned, and more powerfully-built than he was given credit for. Even Sherlock couldn't hide his slight intake of breath - and besides that, his growing erection made his feelings completely obvious.

"You beautiful creature," John murmured, once they'd lubed up. He proceeded to run his hands all over Sherlock's body - his chest, his sides, his hips, and dangerously close to his cock. By this point Sherlock was rock-hard.

John motioned that Sherlock should get into bed, and his love was happy to comply. John hovered over him, pressing Sherlock deep into the bedclothes, a smile of wonderment on his face. Sherlock smiled back, his curls fanning about him like a halo. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's thin hips, straddling him, allowing their erections to touch.

"Oh ... my," Sherlock breathed, his cheeks flushing. His hips bucked a bit, bringing a smile of satisfaction to John's face.

John held tight to Sherlock's waist as he began a series of thrusts - slow at first, then faster, more urgent. He sucked at Sherlock's neck reverently, cherishing each noise of pleasure that came from his partner. Sherlock's face was flushed, his head thrown back, trembling with excitement as John shifted position and took his erect cock in hand.

"Oh, _God_ ... Jaawn ..." Sherlock squeaked.

John stroked Sherlock's erection, finding himself incredibly turned-on by Sherlock's mewing (something that truly had to be heard to be believed). He reached his hand back and fondled Sherlock's balls, aware that by this point the detective was squirming, pent-up and dying for release.

"John-I think I'm about to-" Sherlock whispered.

John stroked harder, faster. He managed to keep thrusting while doing this. Sherlock, overwhelmed by the combination of the thrusting and stroking, let out a small giggle and came prematurely.

"Christ, Sherlock!" John cried, as Sherlock flopped back onto the bed, exhausted. "That was quick."

Sherlock realized he was forgetting something. He quickly took John's erection in hand. John was on the verge of coming himself; he did, however, need this extra push from Sherlock to do so. He came rather messily, collapsing against Sherlock with a soft groan.

"That was ... oh my God ..." John said faintly.

Sherlock was overcome with laughter. "That was the strangest thing I've ever done!" he admitted. "It's not like those couples on telly say it is. God, I can't stop laughing!" He dissolved into more excited giggles.

John felt a bit defensive. "No, and the first time's usually rough, so-"

"Oh, John, I wasn't criticizing. It was brilliant, I swear."

"Oh. Okay. I'm glad. I'm really, really glad, Sherlock." John grinned, looking up at his love. Sherlock's cheeks were still flushed, his pale chest glistening in the dim light. "You look absolutely gorgeous."

"As do you, John," Sherlock said, running a hand through John's crew cut. "I can't believe what I was missing," he suddenly murmured, more to himself than anything. "But I'm glad I waited. Very glad." His eyes gleamed mischievously. "Let's do it again!"

"Christ, Sherlock, we can't-not right after ..." John insisted. "Besides, we have loads of time to have sex. I promise."

"Good. I might just have to make a list. Places we can engage in this sort of thing, you know."

"Right ..." John said, rolling his eyes. "Hey, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"You're sure you're glad you waited?"

"For you? Yes, of course, John. Of course."

* * *

Bruises may fade, but the hurt tends to remain. Luckily for Sherlock, he had John there, loving and ever-present, to keep him right. He felt safe and protected and loved in John's presence. Above all, he felt relieved in the knowledge that he would never, ever have to endure anything similar to what David and Daniel had put him through again. He'd always thought himself tough to love, and so believed he deserved what they had done to him. John had taught him exactly the opposite. John taught him love, compassion, self-worth, and of stable relationships. John had saved him, as he had done countless times before. And now, at last, Sherlock had given himself entirely to the man he loved, and had not been hurt in the process. John, unsurprisingly, had done the same for him.

It was during the nights spent in the Baker Street sitting-room that Sherlock was most aware of this love. He'd be curled with John in his chair, gazing blankly into the fire, when he was suddenly overcome with warmth and compassion and everything in between. He'd turn to John and say something along the lines of: "I love you."

And John would say: "I love you too, Sherlock."

The words were as simple as could be, but in those moments, Sherlock was more aware than ever of their truth. To describe the flood of emotion he felt would be impossible, for it was so subtle and yet so overpowering all at once.

Sherlock Holmes was lovable, and loved by the greatest man he knew. That was all he would ever need.


End file.
